


Learning the Steps

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Dancing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>shameless batcave fluff. dancing. from a prompt on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning the Steps

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Dean; by the gramophone, moving awkwardly from foot to foot – just trying it out, just a little, and Swayze was a sex symbol, wasn’t he? Swayze was hot, right? - looks up at him. He flings an arm out – jogs the needle off, making the music skip dramatically. Castiel, in the doorway, raises an eyebrow; Dean raises his chin in response, defiant. “What do you know about it?”

Castiel, collected as ever, crosses the room; takes Dean’s hand in his. Reaches over for the gramophone needle, and sets it back on the groove. The music swells; rises, echoes off the wide walls of the Headquarters. They stand for a moment, waiting. Dean’s palm is hot. “Like this.” He says, and starts to move.

With Dean’s hand in his, the other firmly on his ribs, under his arm, Castiel steps forward with one foot – Dean follows, stepping back, getting that well enough. He raises his hand; takes Castiel’s elbow, careful, almost too afraid to mirror the grip the angel has on him.

Then Castiel steps to the side with his other foot – tugs him along, firmly, with his palm. Dean laughs. “You’re gonna lead?”

“I’m the one who knows what I’m doing.” He says, blunt. Dean laughs again, following, a little faster – one, two, three, like they always say – Castiel stepping forward, Dean back – then out to the side, then forward, again. He wonders who invented this; who set it to music, who thought it was a good idea, in the first place; to take someone’s hand in your own and move like this, this silly little box.

“So, what, you went to angel finishing school?”

Castiel, to his credit, looks down; laughs. Keeps his feet moving, slow, his sure hands tugging Dean along with him. “I watched Anna Karenina.” He says, almost shame-faced; but not quite. He meets Dean’s eyes, steps up the pace, tightens his grip on Dean’s hand. It should be weird; it isn’t.

Castiel steps forward, then, and Dean doesn’t keep the distance; slides his foot back only slightly, letting Castiel shift near, letting him almost close the distance between them. “You liked it?”

Castiel shrugs. “Everyone knows the ending.” He says, and Dean smiles. He can feel Castiel’s breath on his face.

“So you learned?” he says, and his voice has lowered, as if talking too loudly will break something. “Just from watching a movie?”

He nods. Dean slides his hand up Cas’ arm to his shoulder and they are close, now; closer. Castiel’s shirt buttons rasp against his chest, and Dean almost laughs because it’s like a stupid joke; a metaphor, alive. They’ve been dancing around this for years.

“You’re pretty good.” Dean concedes – stupid, because Castiel isn’t interested in his praise. He’s learned the skill; it’s there.

“You’re terrible.” Castiel answers. Dean closes his eyes, briefly.

“Fuck you.” He murmurs, still stepping, one two three, one two three, still keeping that pace; Castiel turning him, his hands, his body. He is reminded, dimly, of those hands putting him back together; of Castiel knitting him fibre to fibre, skin to skin. “Cas.” He says, slowly. The music runs out, starts a new song; something old, like always. Dean doesn’t know any of the songs yet but likes the sound of them; likes how they take on another age, so sharp, so coloured, that he could almost believe he was there. Like his Dad’s music, but softer, sepia-toned. “Cas.” He says, again. It comes out barely a breath.

The angel has been looking at his feet; at them moving, his eyes lowered, but at this, he looks up. Dean realises how very close he is. What they’re doing here.

“Mm?” Castiel answers. The hand that holds Dean’s – his thumb – strokes, idly, up and down the side of his hand.

And Dean stumbles, out of step. He can’t not kiss him; wishes he could kiss, all at once, his careful hands, his measured gait, his steady eyes.

His mouth, though, he can manage. Can smell him; rumpled bed-smell, laundry and breakfast. Home. 

The music stops.

They don’t pull back.


End file.
